


The Road So Far

by MissScorp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:29:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 20,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/pseuds/MissScorp
Summary: A lot of miles have been traveled since the night Dean broke into Sam's apartment.





	1. Beginnings

"Dad hasn't been home in a few days."

Jess lifted her head to look at Sam, her face conveying her worry and concern for a man she had never even met. _Got yourself a good girl there, Sammy_ , Dean thought as he fought a grin. Sam's expression, though, didn't waver. Dean found himself starting to get frostbite from all those icy glares he was getting. Not like it could be helped. He needed Sam's help and that was all there was to it.

"So he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift." Snow was warmer than Sam's tone. "He'll stumble back in sooner or later."

_He'll stumble back in sooner or later_ translated to he would come home when he was good and ready. Dean heaved a soft sigh and ducked his head in order to hide his irritation and disappointment. _C'mon, Sam_ , he said silently to his younger brother. _You ain't hearin' what it is I am tryin' to tell you_. _No matter_ , he thought as he slowly lifted his head and stared at his brother. _Just gonna have to try something else to get you to hear what I'm saying_.

"Dad's on a hunting trip." He paused just long enough for those words to sink in. Sam's face might have remained perfectly composed, but his eyes told him how his brother had picked up on that subtle hint. _Attaboy, Sammy_ , he thought as his lips kicked up at the corners. _Don't let me down, now_. He shot a quick look at Jess, appreciating the view despite the warning glare he got from his brother. He could tell by her blank expression that she had not figured out that he and his brother were speaking in code. Figuring that meant the coast was all clear and that he could make his final point, he said, his voice dropping an octave, "And he hasn't been home in a few days."

Silence reigned for a number of tense seconds. Second's where Dean imagined Sam shrugging him and his worries about dad off. He half-imagined him telling him how it was probable that dad was just so wrapped up in hunting whatever it was he was after that he simply forgot to call. _Dad will make contact once he finishes whatever job he is on_ was something of a religious chant in their family. However, Dean knew that wasn't the case. Something, he didn't know what told him that this wasn't just some case of John Winchester getting so involved in a hunt that he simply had forgotten to make contact. No, something wasn't right about this.

Something wasn't right about it at all.

He could tell by the slight change in Sam's expressions that he had picked up on that veiled point. The stone-cold mask his brother had been wearing since finding out who his midnight intruder was, slid and Dean saw a small kernel of fear mixed with a good deal of worry and doubt, form in the pit of Sam's eyes. Despite all the angry words that had been said the last time they were face-to-face, he was still their father. And Dean had been counting upon Sammy wanting to make sure dad was okay in order to get him to help search for him.

_That's right_ , he told his brother silently. _This ain't dad just being dad. Somethin' is wrong and we need to shag ass in order to find out what_.

"Jess?" Sam's eyes never left Dean's. "Can you excuse us for a moment? We need to go outside."

And with those words everything about their lives changed.

Forever.


	2. A Son's Plea

"Dad?" Dean tried to keep the desperation out of his voice but knew he was failing. "Dad, I really need to hear from you. I don't know what you're doing..."

And he didn't rightly give a crap. He didn't care about whatever the hell it was his dad was doing. Nothing could be so important that it necessitated him cutting off all contact. He didn't say that, though. He figured his dad would be able to put two and two together and come up with that answer for himself.

"Look, Sam is with me. We're in Jericho." He closed his eyes for a moment, more of a long blink than anything else. "I got your journal."

 _The planted journal with the usual ex-Marine crap you use whenever you want us to do something, but can't just ask_ us _or tell us straight out about what it is you want us to do._

He didn't say that part out loud, either.

"Could you, uh, could you just call me back?"

God, he sounded like such a whiny little bitch. Not like there was any other choice. He hoped the concern in his voice might break through his dad's focus long enough to get him to respond to his request for some sort of message that said he was alive.

"Hell, leave me a message, a text, an email, anything." He didn't add the please that all but tossed itself off his tongue. "Sam and I just wanna know you're alright. Okay?"

He knew there wouldn't be a response even before he hung up the phone. There hadn't been a response to the dozens of other voicemails that he had left in the last few days. Still, he held out hope. He didn't know if that made him a hopeless fool or a blithering idiot. The way he saw it? It was a mixture of both.


	3. PS I Love You

She watches Sam enter the darkened bedroom, his lips crooked upwards in that goofy grin she so loves and eating one of the chocolate chip cookies she baked just for him. He sits down on the edge of the bed - _their bed_. It is a scene they have played out the handful of other times when one of them had gone away for a few days. Only, this time the scene is not going to go as planned. This is not the homecoming either of them imagined after they hung up the phone earlier that afternoon.

She is not going to laugh and roll atop him after he flops on his back.

He is not going to smile and teasingly ask, "did you miss me?"

She is not going to reply by giving him one kiss for every day he was gone.

He is not going to fold those long arms around her and assure her he will, "Not be tagging along with his brother again anytime soon."

There wouldn't be any more soft touches sweeping over hypersensitive skin. No more moist breath rasping over dewy flesh. No more soft sighs filling the silence. No more promises of forever, no more looking forward to all those tomorrow's, no more hopes and dreams for them to laugh over, no more memories for them to recall when they were old and gray.

Pain ripples from the long and ugly gash across her abdomen. It is nothing, however, to the blinding, biting pain tearing apart her heart and melting her soul. Through the waves of pain and fear, she sees Sam frown. His hand edges towards her side of the bed, clearly searching for her and coming up empty.

"Jess?" He calls softly, his brow puckering more with curiosity than worry and concern. "Jess, where are you?"

She desperately tries to make her mouth work so she can tell him to look up, to see what the man with the oddly colored yellow eyes had done to her, but the words stay stuck; frozen in her throat, forever. Blood drips off her nightgown, splattering on his forehead and cheek, and staining the pillow upon which his head lay. The drops remind her of the glaze on a candied apple, all thick and syrupy and shiny. Sam's eyes pop open and meet hers. She reads his shock, his fear, his horror, and his pain but is helpless to do anything about it. Not pinned to the ceiling as she is by invisible hands.

Sam lets out a loud gasp when he realizes where she is staring down at him from. He shoots upright in the bed, his eyes never leaving hers. On his face she can see how there is nothing he can do to help her. He can't stop what is going to happen any more than he can stop a volcano from erupting.

"Jess!" His anguish rips at her. "Jess, no!"

How she wishes she could reach out and stroke his cheek. How she wishes she could tell him she forgives him for never telling her the truth, for keeping who he really was a secret from her, for not warning her about how the monsters she thought got locked up in San Quentin, were actually real. Most of all she wishes she could tell him she loves him, she will always love him, but a wall of flames engulfs her.

 _Sam_... is Jessica Moore's last thought before the fire consumes her, heart, body and soul.


	4. Facing The Truth

"You didn't try and tell her the truth."

It was an appropriate accusation. He hadn't ever really tried to tell Jess the truth. Not about himself, his family, hunting, none of it. He told himself he couldn't tell her the truth because he couldn't chance it. He risked losing her if he told her every dark secret he had. At least, that's what he kept telling himself when the guilt about his omissions would eat away at his resolve. He had almost convinced himself it was time to reveal his every secret to her when he decided to propose to her. Yet when the opportunity to tell her the truth presented itself, he hadn't.

"You never told her about who you really are, because you were afraid she'd think you a freak and leave you." His reflection sneered at him, damning him for the liar he was. "But it's more than that, isn't it?" His eyes started to burn and he swallowed back a groan. He felt a sticky ooze trickle out from the corner of his eyes and slowly run down his face in one long, synchronized set of rivulets. He knew it was blood by its tangy, coppery aroma. However, there was nothing he could do to stop Bloody Mary. Not when she had him so completely snared in her deceptive little glass web.

"Those nightmares you were having of Jessica dying?" She taunted in a low hiss. "Those visions of her screaming and burning? You were having them for days before she died."

Every word was another arrow shot into his already fractured heart. Every word was another bit of truth he had tried so hard to deny, to ignore, and that he wanted to go away. Every word was another reminder about how he failed to protect Jess, to keep her safe from the monsters he knew were out there. The monsters who had already taken away the mother he never got a chance to know.

"You were dreaming of her burning like your mother did and you didn't say anything to her." The words were a low growl. His face in the glass contorted, shifted between his own image and that of Bloody Mary. "You were so desperate to not believe that what was going on was a premonition that you made yourself believe they were just dreams. How could you ignore the truth? How could you ignore the warning?" His voice rose an octave with every question until he shouted, "How could you leave her alone to die?!"

It was the question that Sam had asked himself since the night Jess died at the hands of the same thing that murdered his mom.

"I..."

Dean's crowbar went through the mirror.


	5. Seven Years Bad Luck

As soon as Bloody Mary turned into nothing more than crimson fragments and specks of glittery dust, Dean took the mirror containing her dopple's reflection and tossed it atop the pile. It shattered in a hailstorm of shards that rolled out across the sea of glass already spread out across the tile.

 _Take that, bitch_ , Dean thought as he drew a shaky breath. He glanced about the showroom floor, mentally taking inventory of the damage they'd caused but satisfied that nobody else would fall victim to the malevolent spirit known as Bloody Mary. There was glass and empty, broken frames everywhere. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Dean. _Man, if it weren't for bad luck, our family wouldn't have any luck at all_ , he thought as he covered a chuckle with a cough.

"Hey?" He didn't quite manage to keep the perverse amusement running through him from his voice. "Sam?"

There was a groan before Sam replied, "Yeah, Dean?"

Dean indicated the dozens of smashed mirrors with the wave of one hand. "This has gotta be like... what?" A silly grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "Six hundred years or so of bad luck?"

"More like a thousand."

"Dude, we're officially screwed."

Sam managed to snort a laugh as he slowly pulled himself up to his feet. He glanced over at him, the ghost of a smile hanging upon his lips.

"Guess it means you're not gonna get lucky again."

Dean's mind filled with images of him striking out in every dive bar and joint they popped into. That superstition possibly coming true didn't just horrify him, it positively terrified him.

"Man," he groused as he grabbed his crowbar and started making his way from the gallery. "Don't even joke about crap like that."


	6. Heavenly Father

"This is John Winchester."

He didn't know why the hell he bothered to dial dad's number. It wasn't like his dad was going to pick-up and rip him a new one. Dad was dead and he wasn't coming back. He and Sam had made sure of that when they salted and burned his body all those years ago. A part of him reasoned his need to connect with his father was in part because of having his mom brought back to life. Seeing mom standing in that clearing, her white nightgown a beacon of hope, had triggered all the crap he barely kept contained. Why Amara chose to reward him by giving him his mom back, he didn't know. And it wasn't like he was going to ask. He was many things: bold, brash, reckless, but dumb? He liked to think he managed to avoid having that on his already extensive resume.

After everything he had been through, after all, the losses and screw-ups, he needed to hear his dad's voice. And as he sat in the driver's seat of the car his dad had given him almost two decades ago, he had to admit that it felt good to hear that rough baritone again.

"I cannot be reached at this moment. If this is an emergency, you can call my son, Dean at 785-555-0179. He can help you."

Yeah, he didn't know why he bothered to call that phone number after all this time. No more than he understood why he started talking when he heard the beep.

"Dad..." He swallowed back the emotions that rose up to choke him. "Dad, it's me. Look, I, uh, I don't know if you can hear me wherever you are..." He released a shaky breath. "I just… I just wanted to tell you that Sam and I are doing okay. We're good." He looked to where his mom was talking with an old woman. "Mom's back. Don't know if you saw that. She's back and she's, uh, she's good. We're hunting together. I'm sure you'd be pissed if you were here but it feels like the right thing to do." He wet his lips, feeling stupid and childish for leaving a message that nobody was ever going to hear. "Look, Dad, I just wanted to say, ah, I just wanted to tell you that we..."

 _Miss you_ , he said silently as he hung up.


	7. Mirrors

"'We can't kill death."'

Those words would come back to haunt Dean at the exact moment when the tip of that scythe pierced that skeletal frame. Death's face barely registered his shock and dismay at finding himself upon his list of souls waiting to be reaped. His shock couldn't be any more than Dean's, though. He stood there with the handle of that infamous weapon in his hands, able to do nothing more than watch as Death's body crumbled into dust that spread like charcoal across the dusty restaurant floor.

Dean couldn't move for a number of minutes, half afraid that he would be popped where he stood for what he had just done. _I killed Death_ , he thought over and over and over. _I just killed the freakin' Grim Reaper_.

The second most powerful being, next to God.

And he just iced him.

"Dean?" Sam cut into his internal musings. "Dean, are you okay?"

He shook off his apathy and turned to help his brother up to his feet.

"Oh, I'm freakin' fantastic," he managed to say around the lump lodged in his throat. "I think I just killed Death."

"It was an accident, Dean."

"I just reaped the Reaper, Sam!" He ran a hand over his face. "I have officially screwed the pooch in a whole new way here!"

"Things will work out," Sam said reasonably. "They usually do."

Dean had a feeling that things were not going to simply work out. Not this time. _You just can't kill Death and not expect there won't be some sort of divine consequences_ , he thought as he crossed over to where his duffel bag still sat. It would be like breaking a mirror and not expecting to get seven years bad luck for it.

 _Son of a bitch_...


	8. Shifters

_He_ (for he didn't really have a name of his own) slowly paced around the tied-up hunter- _Sam_ , he recalled after doing a bit of sifting through the plethora of thoughts and memories the elder Winchester brother had _oh so thoughtfully_ shared with him during their moment of bonding. He felt very much like the hyena who had captured a tasty gazelle. He was the victorious one this time. He had proven his superiority over the inferior human species. He had won. He had proven he was the better hunter. The way he saw it? He could relish his victory. He could savor it. Play with his food a bit.

"Now, I don't know about you," he said conversationally. "But I am actually finding this whole situation to be just a bit funny."

No answer came from Sam. Disappointing but not unexpected. Losers were always spoilsports. And he could afford to be magnanimous.

"Hell, I even am finding myself able to empathize with poor, misunderstood and unloved Dean."

There was a small scoff and then Sam lifted his head to look at him with those soulful eyes. He could see the bruises creeping black over that perfect skin. Needle-thin rivulets of blood leaked out from dozens of small cuts on his forehead, cheek and by the corner of his right eye. There was a deep rip in his lower lip that dripped crimson caramel he just ached to taste.

"Yeah?" Sam's voice was deceptively soft. Yet he could hear the rage that simmered just below that calm. "And why's that?"

His lips — well, _Dean's_ lips - kicked up at the corners. "Is it really that hard to understand, Sam?"

"Apparently, it is."

"Come, come now," he softly chided. "You and I both know your brother feels all alone. And that the reason for why he doesn't allow himself to get close to anyone is because he fears them leaving him." A small smirk twisted one corner of his lips. "Like _you_ left him."

"That's not-"

"True?" He smiled fully now. "Well, we both know that is a lie, now, don't we?"

"No!" Sam denied in a heated tone. "It's not! You're wrong!"

"Lessee here, hm?" He bent down so they were eye-level. "First, dear ole mommy left. Then daddy left. Then _you_ left. And you leaving hurt him the most."

"You're wrong!"

"Am I, Sammy? Am I really wrong?"

"Yes! You are!"

"You got to go to school. Have friends. A smokin' hot girlfriend. What did Dean get to do? Follow daddy around? Obey his every command? Hell, he did everything daddy asked him to, and he ditched him. _Again_!" He barked a laugh. "No explanation, nothin', just _poof_. Gone. Without a trace."

"No!"

"Yes." He slowly rose to his feet. "Poor little Dean had to run and get you from school just so he wouldn't be all alone in this cold world of ours."

"You're wrong!" Sam struggled against the ropes holding him to the beam he tied him too. "You don't know a damn thing about me or my brother!"

Oh, but Sammy was wrong about that. He did know all about Dean Winchester. He had access to all of Dean's thoughts and memories. To every one of his feelings. That's why he knew...

"All Dean wants is for someone to love him. But there isn't anybody who loves him, is there? There won't ever be anybody to love him. Because who can love a freak?" He tilted his head to the side, enjoying the pain that crossed Sam's face at those words. "Right?"


	9. A Father's Struggle

"Mary's spirit..." He had to pause to allow the never quite gone grief to pass before he could continue. "Do you…?" He swallowed down the hurt and anger and fear to do backflips in his gut and lifted bleary eyes to the woman standing in the entryway of her living room. "Do you think she actually saved our boys from whatever was in our old house?"

Missouri Mosely gave him a look that told him louder than words about how thick-witted she thought him at that moment. Hell, he knew he was acting like a dim-wit but dammit he needed to know for sure. Missouri heaved a soft sigh and muttered something he assumed was unflattering beneath her breath.

"I do think it was Mary's spirit that protected them, boys, yes," she said finally. "And so do you."

"Yeah." He heaved a sigh. "I do know it was Mary. I just needed to hear that someone else believed it, too."

"Them boys know it was their mother who saved them."

"I know they do."

On the outside, he appeared to be cool, calm and collected. Everything a hunter was supposed to be. On the inside, however, he felt like a man caught in the middle of a blizzard. It was how a father felt when his children were being hunted by something he didn't know how to protect them from. There was an audible sigh. Then Missouri broke the silence they had lapsed into by announcing, "John Winchester, I could just slap you."

"I wish you would." He didn't mean to sound like such an asshole. "It might provide me with the clarity I am lacking right now."

"Why won't you just go and talk to them boys?"

She fisted her hands on her ample hips and fixed him with her most reproving look. John knew she was waiting for him to say something, anything, that would explain why he was sitting here in her living room rather than going and meeting up with his boys. He just didn't have an explanation that would satisfy her. "Well?" she demanded when he remained silent.

John ran a callused hand over his face, hearing the thick bristles rasp against his fingers and palm. It had been days since he bothered to worry about things like shaving and sleeping. _Or eating_. He felt like hell and knew he musta looked like it, too. He told himself there would be plenty of time for those things when he got his answers. Until then…

"I wanna go and see 'em," he finally admitted in a voice that throbbed with his want, with his need to see his boys. To speak with them. To hold them for just a fraction of a second. To make sure they were alright. "Dammit, Missouri, you have no idea how much I wanna go and see 'em."

Missouri sat beside him on the couch. "Then why don't you?"

"Because I can't," he told her quietly. "Not yet. Not until I know the truth about what happened the night Mary died."

 _Not until I know how to protect them from this damn thing_ , he added silently as he looked down at the hands curled around his knees. Because there was one thing he promised himself and Mary on the night she died: he wasn't going to lose their boys.

Not like he lost her.

He would sacrifice himself before he would ever let that yellow-eyed son of a bitch have their boys.


	10. Wants

"There's gotta be somethin' you want for yourself," Sam said with mild exasperation. "I mean, haven't you ever wanted more than to tear ass down the highway and chase monsters?"

Oh, there were lots of things Dean wanted for himself. More than a couple bucks in his pocket, a place he could call home, their mom back. The thing he wanted most, though?

"I don't want you to leave the second this is over."

He walked over to the dresser, waiting for Sam to reassure him he wasn't going to walk away once they got done with Meg and her little shadow puppet and having the sinking feeling he was gonna be let down. Like always.

"Dude, what's your problem?"

Dean tried to gather his thoughts into some order. Their family wasn't big on heart-to-hearts after all. Feelings were things locked up in boxes with wards and charms drawn on them that were stored in storage sheds with even more layers of protective spells and wards.

"Why do you think I drag you everywhere? Huh?" He turned towards him. "I mean, why do you think I came and got you at Stanford in the first place?"

Sam seemed thrown by the question.

"'Cause Dad was in trouble. And 'cause you wanted to find the thing that killed Mom."

Dean wondered if his brother was _that_ dense.

"It's about more than that, man." He paced back and forth in front of the dresser. "It's about you and me." He paused. "And Dad," he finally said. "It's about wanting…." He swallowed back the fear and anxiety, ignored the little voice in his head warning him this conversation wasn't going to end well and shoved aside everything telling him to button his pie hole.

"Wanting what, Dean? What is it you want?"

"I want us all together again, Sam. I want us to be a family again," he clarified when he caught a glimpse of the confused look on Sam's face in the mirror. "That's why I came and got you at school. 'Cause I knew dad wouldn't, no matter how much he wanted to."

It was his deepest, darkest, and most shameful secret. Having them back together as a family was the one dream he allowed himself to have. It was the one damn thing he didn't feel guilty about wanting. It was also the only need he had beyond sex, pie, and air. His dad and Sammy were what got him out of bed every morning. They kept him fightin' even when the odds of winning were firmly stacked against him. They were the reason he didn't give up, cash it all in and walk away. Family didn't quit family, no matter how much they wanted too.

"Dean, we are a family." Sam gave him that sad-eyed look that always sliced him into a billion pieces. "And I would do anything for you. And for dad. But." God, Dean hated that word. Nothing ever good came when someone sad but. "Things are just never gonna be the way they were before."

It wasn't what he hoped to hear.

"It could be." He somehow kept the hurt from showing, but he couldn't quite manage to mask the sadness. "It could be, Sammy."

"I don't want things like they were before," came Sam's equally soft reply. "I'm not gonna live this life forever. I don't want to be a hunter for the rest of my life."

"Yeah, I know th..."

"Dean, when this is all over, you're gonna have to let me go my own way.

 _Let me go my own way_ , Sammy said. Dean translated that as he needed to let him go. And he couldn't do that. No more than he could stop breathing. Because who was he if he wasn't Sammy's big brother? Who was he if he wasn't watching out for him? Making sure he was safe? Dean Winchester had no identity of his own. He was always called John's boy, that Winchester fella, Sammy's big brother. If Sam walked away, returned to his other life, he would be alone.

And he was so damn tired of being alone.

Dean looked at Sam once more, tempted to tell him that, but he turned and walked into the bathroom instead.


	11. Giving Up

Bobby stared at the twisted mass of steel, shattered glass and bloodstained leather with a mixture of shock and dismay, fear and anger and all around relief that she could withstand the force of the semi-truck that rammed into her half as well as she had. _If she hadn't_ … well, he didn't allow himself to complete that thought. She had sustained the worst of the blow and thus saved the lives of her boys. However, the damn thing was a wreck. Fixing her up would require work. _A lotta work_. Getting the boy standing beside him to see that, though? Well, he imagined sawing off his foot with a toothpick would be a whole lot easier. Still, he tried to convince Sam that it was time to say goodbye to this car that was so much more than a car to him. _And to Dean_ …

"Sam, there's just nothing here to fix." He kept his tone neutral, going for reasonable and logical over brutal and blunt. "The frame's bent more than a pretzel, and the engine's in more pieces than a jigsaw. There's barely even any parts worth salvaging for the scrap yard."

As he expected, Sam didn't agree with his assessment.

"Listen to me, Bobby." His tone was as serious as the expression upon his face. "If there's only one working part, that's enough."

"Sam…"

"Dean wouldn't give up on her." Sam shook his head. "I'm not giving up on her, either."

No, Dean wouldn't give up on her. Bobby knew that. He knew neither boy would ever give up on her. So long as there was something there that they could possibly fix, they would never let her go. _And why should they give up on her_? He asked himself as he stared into Sam's red-rimmed eyes. _She's never given up on them_. No, this 1967 Impala was the one constant in the lives of Sam and Dean Winchester. She was the one thing they could always count upon being there for them. She was the only thing that has never let them down. She was everything to them. And they would do everything in their power to bring her back from the brink of death.

"Okay," he finally told him quietly. "Okay, you got it, Sam. I'll tow her to the yard."

"Thank you, Bobby."

Bobby watched silently as Sam ran a hand over one twisted fender. He swore he heard a sound, almost like a tick of metal that was trying to unbend itself. He shook his head. _Getting dodgy in my old age_. However, something told him that the car sitting there with her body smashed nearly to bits and her inner works exposed to the early morning air wasn't done.

Not by a long shot.

 


	12. Not Dead Yet

She sat in that tow lot, weeping 10w30 tears and bleeding buckets of transmission and radiator fluid. Physically, she is as broken and bloody as her boys. Her bones are twisted, mangled pieces of steel and chrome. Her flesh is shattered bits of wood and glass. Yet she's nowhere near ready to roll over and say die. She wants revenge, same as her boys. She wants to pay back yellow-eyes for hurting Dean -  _her_  Dean. She wants to teach the bastard not to mess with Sam -  _her_  Sammy. She wants to peel out in his face for what he's done to John -  _her_  John. She wants to...

"Oh, man," she can hear Sam say. "Dean is gonna be totally pissed when he sees her."

She knows Sammy is right. She knows Dean is gonna be pissed when he sees the damage done by that semi-truck. She can imagine the scene he's gonna make as he stomps all around her battered and bruised frame, cursing a blue streak at every dent, every ripple, every piece of steel he sees hanging. There are gonna be tears in his eyes as he gently stroked her crushed door panel, bent fender and busted front headlight. Then his face is gonna set in that way that says he is gonna make her good as new.

"Look, Sam." The old hunter who came with Sam to visit her lets out a deep sigh. "This... this just ain't worth the tow." He wipes a hand over his whiskered face and studies her with an eye that sees everything wrong. "I'm tellin' you we should just empty the trunk of everything that's necessary and scrap the rest."

See, she knows Sammy won't agree with what the old hunter is saying. He's only seeing the damage done to her outside. He doesn't know her heart is still beating. And that it will keep so long as she has Sam and Dean to keep her alive.

"No," Sammy replies firmly. "Dean would skin me if we scraped her."

"Sam..."

"No, Bobby." Sam stares at the older man with eyes that she sees are just a bit glassy. "When Dean gets better he's gonna wanna fix her."

"Sam, I'm telling you there's just nothing here to fix." He indicates her with a wave of a hand. "The frame's bent more than a pretzel, the engine's in more pieces than a jigsaw and the transmission looks like a cube. There's barely even any parts worth salvaging for the scrap yard."

Again, Sam doesn't agree with the hunter's assessment of her condition.

"Listen to me, Bobby." His tone is as serious as the expression on his face. "As long as there's only one working part on her is enough for Dean."

"Sam…"

"Dean isn't gonna give up on her," Sam told the hunter. "I'm not giving up on her, either."

No, Dean isn't gonna give up on her. Neither of her boys will ever give up on her. Why should they give up on her? She's m never given up on them. No, she is the one constant in their lives. She is the one thing those boys can always count upon being there for them. She is the only thing that has never let them down. She is everything to them. As they are everything to her.

"Okay," the hunter tells Sam after a few moments. "Okay, you got it, Sam. I'll tow her to the yard."

_To the yard._

Where Dean will put her back together so they can tear asphalt in pursuit of that yellow-eyed son of a bitch.

 _Together_.

At the end of the day, that's what matters. They're together.

And they're always gonna be.


	13. Tessa

"Your fight's over, Dean." There was a slightly sad smile trembling on Tessa's pale lips. And what he assumed was a reaper's equivalence of pity in the eyes lifted to his. "You need to accept that and move on."

"I do, do I?" Dean couldn't stop the trickle of amusement that crept into his voice. "And why is that?" He folded his arms across his chest and gave her what he hoped was his dirtiest look. "Because you say so?"

"Yes."

Her expression and tone were both adamant. As if she fully expected him to simply give in and do as she commanded because she commanded it. _Well, sister, you got another thought comin' there_...

"That's why?" He sniffed, once, to show his disdain for her order. "Because you say I gotta?"

"Your fight is over is also why you need to accept this," she patiently explained. "You have nothing left to prove, Dean. Nothing left that you need to do."

Dean didn't agree with her assessment. Not by a long shot. His fight wasn't over. It wasn't over by a long shot. Not with Dad and Sammy camped out at his bedside, bitchin' at each other over stupid stuff - like always - while waiting for his ass to return from its trip to La-La Land. There was no way in hell he could leave them. Not when there was so much left unsaid between them. There were too many mistakes not owned up for. Too many years spent keeping secrets and hiding truths not yet resolved. And there was still that yellow-eyed son of a bitch who put him in this hospital bed out there who needed to pay for what he did to Mom. No, his fight wasn't over. It wasn't over until they put a bullet in his ass.

"No." He turned to pace a few steps away, putting distance between him and her to avoid doing something he might truly regret. "No way. My fight ain't over. It ain't over at all."

"It is for you, Dean." He flicked his eyes over his shoulder and saw the slight bit of sympathy on her face. Heard it in her voice. And wanted to chew nails because of it. "There is no going back."

"My dad and Sammy will find a way to get me oughta this." His lips curled at the corners. "See, they aren't ready to toss in the towel anymore than I am. Not when that yellow-eyed son of a bitch is still out there and waitin' for us to put a bullet in him."

"Dean, you're not the first soldier I've plucked from the field." She speaks in what Dean assumes is her most patient voice. As if he was just some dog she needed to bring to heel. "The others all felt the same as you. They can't leave. The world hangs in the balance because of them. They have many things left they need to do. But they were wrong. Same as you're wrong." She stepped towards him and set a hand on his arm. "The battles went on without them. Same as they will go on without you."

Dean found himself tempted to give in. To toss in the towel and accept things as she wanted him to. However, pride and loyalty hammered back any selfish desire he might have possessed. Sammy and Dad needed him and dammit, he wasn't gonna abandon them!

"Maybe you didn't hear me." He turned so he could stare down into her face. "I said I ain't going no damn where."

"Dean-"

"No." He shook his head. "I ain't leaving my dad and my brother alone. They'll kill each other if I'm not around to play referee!"

"Maybe they will," she allowed with a slight nod of her head. "But then again, maybe they won't. There's nothing you can do about it. You're done here."

"No." He doesn't growl it. There wasn't any need too. The way he saw it? He was simply stating facts. "I ain't."

"It's an honorable death, Dean." Tessa's fingers gently squeezed his arm. Silently beseeching; subtly tempting. "A warrior's death. You couldn't ask for more."

"Yeah?" He reached up and removed her hand from his arm. "Well, I ain't interested, a'ight?"

He turned then, meaning to head back to his room, to his dad and Sammy but Tessa letting out a sudden gasp of pain had him spinning around. What he saw rocked him to the core of his being.

Yellow-eyes replaced Tessa's chocolate ones.

"Well, seems like today is your lucky day," he heard above the buzzing in his ears. "Time for you to go home."

"What the hell?" he managed to croak around the giant lump stuck in his throat. "Where the hell's Tessa?"

"Sorry, the little reaper isn't in at the moment."

A hand clapped to his forehead before Dean could make a move.

Everything went bright.

Then dark.

 


	14. Regrets

"Dean, I'm sorry."

Apologizing wasn't something that came easily to John Winchester. He learned to stop saying sorry the night Mary died. However, before he handed himself and the Colt over to that yellow-eyed son of a bitch, he wanted to say some of the things he never got around to saying. All the years where he didn't say or do the things he knew he should have, haunted him. Of his two boys, it was Dean he felt he failed the most.

Sure, he tried to be a good father. He tried to give both his boys the best he could. Looking back, however, showed him that teaching them about the monsters in the darkness wasn't nearly as important as playing ball with them in the front yard. _Had they had a front yard_ , he thought, face twisting into a pained grimace. Truth was, his boys had mostly grown up nomads. That 1967 Chevy was the closest thing to a home either boy had.

It never occurred to him that what Dean might have wanted wasn't what _he_ wanted. No more than it occurred to him that the life Sam wanted wasn't the one he gave him. For the longest time, he blamed his problems with Sammy on the fact they were just two different men. Him and Dean, though? They were almost carbon copies of the other. They shared a similar taste in clothes, music, food, booze. Even their choices in weapons and women tended to follow a similar vein.

And that, John knew, was because he had turned his oldest son into a mirror image of himself. He drilled into Dean from day one that evil was everywhere. Monsters were all around them. And he needed to be ready for whenever they decided to attack. He stopped being the father his son needed the night Mary died and became the drill sergeant he didn't.

"What?" Dean's eyes reflected his confusion and concern. "Dad?"

 **"** You shouldn't have been the one apologizing to me," he told Dean in a thick voice. "I should have been the one apologizing to you."

"Dad...?" He shook his head. "What are you talkin' about? What should you be apologizin' to me for? I'm the one who-"

"I should be apologizing for everything, son."

"For everything?" Dean's brow furrowed. "Dad, I'm not following. What-"

"When you were little, I'd come home from a hunt, and after what I'd seen, I'd be," he breathed out a soft, humorless chuckle. "Hell, I'd be wrecked. And you, you'd come up to me and you'd put your hand on my shoulder and you'd look me in the eye and you'd..." The memories stuck in his throat and made speaking difficult. John swallowed them back, same as he swallowed back everything else that happened over the last twenty some odd years. When he again felt settled he said, "You'd stand there and say, 'It's okay, Dad.'" He lifted anguished eyes to Dean's. "I put too much on your shoulders. I made you grow up too fast."

"No, dad..."

"You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once. I just..." He pushed down the regret swirling in his veins. Set aside the guilt burning a hole in his heart. Told himself there were no tomorrows to make any of those missed opportunities up. There was only that moment. And he had to make it count. "I just want you to know I am so proud of you. Of the man you've become."

"Dad?" The skepticism in Dean's voice hurt to hear. It was even more evidence about how much he failed to be the father that his son needed. "Is this really you talkin'?"

"Yeah." He nodded, smiling softly. "Yeah, it's really me talking, Dean."

 **"** Why are you saying this stuff?" Worry darkened the green of Dean's eyes. And drained what little color there was in his face. "What's going on?"

John could feel his time running out. Even now he could see the shadows in the corners of the hospital room stirring. Any moment and the yellow-eyed demon would come to collect the last part of their devil's bargain. He had to hurry. He stepped close to the bed and laid a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder. Shoulders that already carried too much. "Look, I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay?"

 **"** Yeah, Dad, you know I will." Uncertainty replaced the worry now. "You're starting to scare me..."

 **"** Don't be scared, Dean." He gave his son what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Everything is gonna be all right."

 _I promise that everything will be all right_ , he added as he leaned over to whisper something - a burden he wished he did not have to place upon him - into Dean's ear. Dean stared up at him with eyes wide and mouth agape.

"You understand what I'm telling you, son?"

A nod was all Dean could manage. John smiled at him one more time before slowly turning to walk into the hospital room next to Dean's. The shadows were already there, waiting to take possession of him, to pull him from this world, from his boys. He accepted his fate, considered it his due and set the Colt on the table before telling them simply, "Okay."

The last thing he recalls is Dean pleading, "Come on, come on," before another voice, one he doesn't recognize and which he suspects does not belong to a doctor on staff, breaks through the nothing to say, "Time of death: 10:41 am."


	15. Damaged

He sees Sam's lip tremble and hears him when he says, "I miss him, man," but can't think of anything to say back. What was he supposed to say? That he missed dad, too? Hell, Sam already knew he did. So, was he supposed to tell him how there wasn't enough whiskey in the world to drown the sorrow burning a hole in his gut? Or to dull the guilt and anger simmering within all the other stink inside his head? He should know there wasn't. Not that Dean hadn't been doing his best to find the oblivion supposedly lurking at the bottom of every bottle of scotch, gin or whiskey he could get his hands on.

"I feel guilty as hell for all the things I said to dad right before the end. And I'm not all right, Dean. Not at all." He watches the play of emotions on Sam's face and feels like an even bigger dick than he already did. "But neither are you. That much I do know. You aren't okay, Dean. Not by a long shot."

Sam fell silent after that. Dean knew his brother was waiting for him to say something; anything. What could he tell him, though? That he was right? That he wasn't okay? Hell, they both knew he wasn't. Finally, after several moments passed, Sam sighed and turned away.

"Yeah, guess I'll just let you get back to work."

Dean watches Sam walk back towards Bobby's house, knowing he should go after him, but not able to bring himself to do it. His body trembles from the emotions tumbling around inside him. As he stands there, quietly warring with himself about what he should do, he realized there wasn't a place that _didn't_ hurt. He was one solid and never-ending wall of pain. Even the tips of his hair throbbed. He felt... too much. Any second he expected his mind or body to explode from the pressure building up inside him.

He turned and grabs up a crowbar from where he dropped it earlier. He grips it tight, feeling all his rage sliding down into the fingers wrapped around that cold metal. It erupts from him in one swing, sending glass spraying everywhere. Feeling alive for the first time in days, he takes his fury out on the only thing of dad's he still has. Over and over, he slams that crowbar down upon the dusty and dented trunk of his Baby. When he's left empty he tosses it to the ground and stares at the damage he's caused to the only thing, besides Sam and Bobby, of course, that matters to him.

He can fix her, though. With the right tools and the necessary parts, he can set Baby to right. Harder to repair was the damage to him and Sammy.

There simply weren't enough tools or parts to fix them.


	16. Watch What You Say

"What's dead should stay dead!"

How many times over the years had he said those words? And how many times had they come back to bite them on the ass? He really should just give up saying it. Nothing stayed dead. Hell, even their mom had gotten brought back from the dead.

 _But not dad_ , he realized as he sat there, staring at Sam.

_Or Jess._

_Adam._

_Charlie._

_Benny._

_Ellen and Joe._

_Pamela._

_Ashe._

_Rufus._

_Bobby._

_Kevin._

_Cas._

_Hell, even Crowley was a rotting bag of bones decaying in some deep, dark hole now._

_So, maybe_ , he thought as a lump formed in his throat, it wasn't that the dead _should_ stay dead... maybe it was that some of those who _should_ be dead just couldn't _stay_ dead.

Like _him_.

"Man, yanno what?" he said as he got up to pour himself another drink. "Forget I even said that."

"Dean..."

"I said forget it, Sammy!"

 _Forget it because it won't matter_ , he thought as he raised the half-full tumbler and drained it in one long swallow. _Nothing stays dead_.

Except for those who should not be dead that is.


	17. Night Moves

He knew he was a goner the second she pulled up beside him. Even his jaded heart couldn't help but admire her. Every line, every curve of her alabaster body was a marvel of perfection. Every inch was crafted out of heavy-duty steel and good, old-fashioned American no-how. Her every ripple was a reminder of when extreme pride and care went into the creation of things as lovely as her. 

Even Baby hummed her approval at seeing such perfection. 

In the glow cast by the sinking sun, she burned, searing his eyes and promising to singe his fingers should he ever manage to run them along her velvety side and across her silky-smooth trunk lid. A sea of chrome winked at him, tantalized him, captivated him. She inched forward a couple of inches on her polished sidewalls, making him think of a Mustang itching to roam wild and free across the prairie. Her engine sang him a siren's song, tempting him with an endless array of delights that had his mouth-watering, nerves pulsing, blood bubbling.

Bob Seger filled the moist silence with a song about night moves and a black-haired beauty with big dark eyes who helped chase away his awkward teenage blues. His lips kicked up at the corners. He had learned a lotta night moves in the back of his '67 Chevy. Curious now about the owner of such perfection, and wondering if she was anything like the woman in the song, he shifted his eyes to the woman seated behind the wheel. She was definitely black-haired, but her eyes were gray as witch-smoke instead of dark like molasses.

Those eyes studied him, openly curious, brimming with intelligence, and warm with humor. One dark brow lifted as a slightly sweet, and a shy smile hovered on her pale lips. She wasn't a beauty, not in the classical sense, but he felt himself falling just a little bit in love with her anyway. He was about to call out to her, suggest they exchange numbers, meet up for a drink or just run off to Vegas for the next month but Sammy elbowing him in the side knocked him from his slowly evolving fantasy. 

"Huh?" He blinked and shot a look at his brother.  "What?" 

"Dude." Sam pointed at the light. "The lights green." 

Dean looked and saw that the light was, indeed, green. A glance to the right showed him that his angel in the '65 Ford was nothing but a pair of headlights cruising up the road, Bob Seger singing about how strange the night moves trailing back to him on the summertime breeze... 

 


	18. No, You Won't

As Dean opened the door of the bar, he called over his shoulder, "I'll call you later, okay?"

Jo watched the door shut, heard the latch catch and listened to his footsteps slowly fade away.

"No," she whispered once she knew she was alone. "No, you won't."

That was because Dean never called. He wasn't the sort of man who ever would call. It wasn't his way, not his style. She knew that; accepted it. Just as she accepted it would be weeks, months, maybe even years before she saw him again. The one honest thing Sam -- _or the thing inside Sam_ , she corrected as she turned to gather the supplies she used to treat Dean's wound -- said was that Dean was very much like his father, John.

He didn't tend to stick around or call, either, she thought as she carried the items into the back room. They never heard from John Winchester again after what happened with her dad. Before tonight that would have made her incredibly angry. Now? Now, it just made her deeply sad.

For John.

For her and her mom.

And for Dean, most of all.


	19. Dammit, Dean

Bobby couldn't believe his ears when Dean told him about the deal he made with some crossroads demon. A year, he thought wildly. A goddamn year! Emotions rocketed through him as the implications of Dean's decision rolled through him. It felt like he got sucker-punched by a _kitsune_ and then kicked off a cliff.

He grabbed the boy -- _man_ , really -- and shook him.

 _Hard_.

"What is it with you Winchesters, huh?" He demanded in a throaty rasp. "You, your dad. You're both just itching to throw yourselves down into the pit. Can't you wait to meet your damn makers when it is time for you to meet 'em?"

  
"That's my point, Bobby." Dean didn't growl it. He was simply too worn out at that point to. And that, more than anything scared Bobby the most. "Dad brought me back. I'm not even _supposed_ to be here."

"So?" Bobby's fingers curled into the sleeve of the flannel Dean wore. "What's your point?"

"I just..." Dean paused to swallow. "Well, I figured that at least this way, something good could come out of it, you know? I--I-- It's like my life could actually _mean_ something."

Fear and anger warred within him at those words.

"What? And you think it _didn't_ matter before?!" He shook Dean again, desperate to anchor him to this world and to the body he had been born in. "Have you got that low an opinion of yourself? Are you actually that screwed up that you can't see that you matter?"

Dean didn't have to answer that question because Bobby already knew the answer. His head got screwed on backwards the moment John handed him Sam and told him to protect him. Taking care of his brother wasn't just something Dean did because he wanted to do it. It was something he did because John Winchester impressed upon him he _had_ to do it.

"I couldn't let him die, Bobby." Dean's voice was barely above a whisper. And hurt all the more to hear. "I couldn't. He's my brother. I had to do something to save him. It was my one job. And I _failed_. So I had to fix it." The eyes that lifted to his were full of pain and suffering. "For dad."

 _John wouldn't want you fixing it by giving up your life, though, boy_ , Bobby told him silently. _He gave up his life so you could have one. Don't you know that?_

He didn't say any of that to Dean, though. What good would it have done? Deal been made and there was nothing he or anyone could do about it.

"How is your brother gonna feel when he knows you're going to Hell?" He left that question hang in the air for a moment before demanding, "How'd you feel when you knew your dad went for you?"

"You can't tell him." Dean's face and voice were hard as stone. "You take a shot at me, whatever you got to do, but _please_ , Bobby... don't you tell him about what I done."

Not that Bobby needed to tell Sam about what his brother had done. He suspected Sam would figure it out on his own after a while. If not, there'd be some jackass who would let it truth slip.

 


	20. Future

Dean stared into Sam's big brown-green eyes as he told him he needed to start thinking about finding a way to break the deal he made. Deep within those red-rimmed, swollen depths was a plea for him to worry about the future. About himself. He swallowed back the bark of laughter, the flood of bitterness, the smart-ass response, and the deluge of other crap forming a stink-hole in his belly before it could burst from his mouth like a demon being expunged from its meatsuit.

He turned to walk into the bathroom without saying a word. He couldn't stand looking into Sam's eyes and seeing the pain he was causing him. It killed him to see those puppy-dog eyes swimming with such hurt. There was just nothing he could about it. There was no unscrewing the pooch.

Not this time.

There was no loophole that was gonna change his fate. His future became set in stone the moment Dad placed Sammy in his arms, told him to get him outside, and not look back. Dean Winchester didn't have a future.

He had a  _purpose_.

It was to make sure his brother survived at any and all cost.

And that was what he had done.

 _Worry about my future_? he thought as he looked in the mirror. Saw Sam's eyes reflected back at him amidst a sea of fire and brimstone.  _Why should I?_

The future was here.


	21. Vampira

There was only one true method for how to kill a vampire. Besides a bullet from the Colt, of course. The old-fashioned way, the one that had worked for as long as Dean had been a hunter was to simply take the sons of bitches heads off with the machete he inherited when Dad gave him Baby.

"Most vampire lore is crap," he remembered Dad saying the last time they hunted vampires together. "A cross won't repel them, sunlight won't kill them, and neither will a stake to the heart."

_But if you cut the head off the snake..._

His lips peeled back in a smile as his fingers curled around the handle of the gleaming blade. Man, there was nothing he liked more than cutting off a vamp's head.  _Well, pie_ , he silently corrected.  _And_... he cut that thought off as he swung the machete at the blonde fang rushing at him. The blade sang as it sliced through the bitches head.

One hiss and she dropped to the ground.

No muss, no fuss, no more Vampira.

Just the way he liked it.


	22. Answer

"The answer is yes."

There might have been regret on Ruby's perfectly flawless face. Might have been. He couldn't rightly be sure. It was there and gone so fast that Dean couldn't say he saw what he thought he had seen. He slowly turned the rest of the way, one eyebrow forked at her comment.

"I'm sorry?"

"Yes, the same thing will happen to you," she said with a small grimace. "It might take centuries, but sooner or later Hell will burn away your humanity. Every Hell-bound soul, every one, turns into something else. Turns you into us. So yeah." She gave a slight nod of her head. "Yeah, you can count on it."

Dean wasn't surprised by her answer. He had known it would be the answer the second that he started thinking the question. He'd been screwed by the pooch so much now that he knew when another bend over the barrel was coming. Hell, he kept lube on hand just in case. Still, there was one more question sitting heavy on his mind.

"There's no way of saving me from the Pit is there?"

Ruby shook her head. Again, there might have been momentary regret on her face. Might have been. Dean, however, believed it was all part of Ruby's act. Her way of suckering him and Sam into whatever trap being set. The bitch all but confirmed it when she sighed and said a short, succulent, "No."

Nope, Dean wasn't surprised by Ruby's answer. He'd known he was screwed the moment he agreed to the crossroad demon's deal. He had told Sammy there was no way to get him out of his contract all these many months. To learn there was no way to break the deal? Well, that was just the icing on the cake.

He did, however, vow to do one thing before he became some Hellhounds chew-toy.

He was gonna gank the lyin', black-eyed bitch.


	23. Interrupted Indulgence

Dean saw her as he drove down the road that led to the craptastic hotel he and Sam had camped in the last few days. His heart did a little jig at again seeing such perfection. She — for all cars are female — was parked in a stall outside some hole in the wall diner he didn't even bother checking the name of. Every inch of her was exactly as he remembered: heavy-duty steel and good, old-fashioned American no-how having created a car of simple elegance and beauty.

Even Baby purred her want to cuddle up beside Mustang Sally.

In the glow of the sputtering street lamp, she gleamed. It was almost like she was preening, winking at him saucily and teasing him with the endless array of delights that awaited him should he dare throw caution to the wind. And Dean had to admit that his mouth  _was_ watering. His fingers positively itched with the need to stroke that sea of chrome and ivory metal. Every nerve pulsed with a desire to feel that silky-smooth steel against his palm. His blood bubbled and boiled with the want to sit behind her wheel and just hear her sigh her pleasure and delight.

_What the hell_ , he decided as he swung Baby into the empty stall beside her.  _Ain't like Sammy is here to stop me from indulging myself._

And the way Dean saw it? He deserved to indulge himself a little after their last case.

The words of the other Dean came back to haunt him as he sat behind the wheel and listened to Baby rumble to silence.

"I know how dead you are inside. How worthless you feel. I know how you look into a mirror... and hate what you see."

_Shut it, pal_ , he thought.  _Still, ain't listening to the line you're tryin' to sell._

"You can lie to everyone else but you can't lie to me."

_You ain't anyone so shut it._

"You're nothing," Inner Dean taunted in a tone that had his fingers clamping down so hard on Baby's wheel his knuckles popped and cracked like Rice Crispies. "A mindless and obedient dog. Daddy's little parrot."

_Yeah?_  His lips kicked up into a sneer.  _Well, you're still nothing but a voice inside in my head. Snap of my fingers and you're gone._

"And you're gonna find yourself all alone in the pit. No Sammy. No Bobby. No Daddy to come and save you."

_Whatever_ , he told his other side before he opened the door and stepped out.  _I got bigger fish to fry._

He didn't bother to add that he had a date with one sweet ass ride and her mysterious owner.

"You can ignore the truth all you want..."

He cut the voice off by shoving the driver door closed. Dean was just cruising around Baby's front end, anticipating finally getting a chance to fulfill his craving for some Night Moves when his phone went off. Even without looking he knew who the caller was:  _Sam_.

"Son of a bitch." He silently seethed as he fished around in his pocket. "What?" he barked. "And this better be really important..."

Otherwise, he just might shoot his brother for interfering with his plans. He glanced longingly at Mustang Sally while he listened to Sam ramble on about some sighting of some demon or another.  _One day_ , he promised her before he walked around Baby.  _We'll have that date one-day._


	24. Trickster

"Just take us back to that Tuesd— Wednesday," Sam instantly corrected. "Take us back to when it all started.  _Please_."

"So, you two chuckleheads can come after me again?" He shook his head. "I think not, Sammo."

"Look, my brother and I won't come after you." Sam held his hands up, a soldier in full surrender. "I swear."

Still, he hedged. Not that he wasn't getting a kick out of seeing Sam beg, but there was more to this little session than met the eye. There was a lesson here to learn here.  _One Sammy-boy clearly hasn't gotten._

"Even if I could…"

"You can." The quiet earnestness on Sam's face almost made him weaken.  _Almost_. "I know you can. Look…"

"— just because I can doesn't mean I should," he interjected. "I mean, there are plenty of reasons for why I should just leave Dean smoldering on the pyre."

_Like the prophecy that says that you and Dean will play a significant role in the coming apocalypse._

"Please, man. He's my brother."

And that was the problem. Something that Sam, for all his supposed brains, didn't seem to get.

"Sam," he said with as much patience as he could muster. "There's a lesson you need to learn here. One I've been trying to drill into that freakish Cro-Magnon skull of yours for the past few months."

Admittedly, teaching Sam this subtle lesson about his co-dependency upon his brother had been the most fun he'd had in a long while. Not that he overly enjoyed killing Dean. Well, he didn't  _dislike_  killing him, but still. He knew what Heaven's plans for Sam and Dean Winchester were.  _And I will no sooner ruin those plans than I will return to the family fold._

"Lesson?" A frown puckered Sam's brow. "What lesson? That you can screw with us and there's nothing we can do about it?" He snorted a sound that was a combination of humor and exasperation. "Look, man, I get it. You've made your point. Alright?"

He swallowed back a litany of curses.  _Is he really this thickheaded_? he wondered as he stared into Sam's eyes.  _Can he not see just how corrosive his bromance with his brother is_? Well, he'd get it through that thick skull of his somehow.  _Even if I have to beat it into him_.

"This obsession of yours with saving Dean?" He enunciated every word slowly and carefully. "The way you two keep sacrificing yourselves for each other?" He shook his head. "Nothing good is ever going to come out of it. Just an endless amount of blood and pain and death." He saw the heated denial forming in Sam's eyes and held up a hand to cut it off. "Look, man, Dean's your weakness. I know it, you know it, and more importantly, the bad guys know it."

_And not all the bad guys come from the land down under_ , he added silently. Much as he loved his father and brothers, he had to admit that they could all be one great big pile of douchebags.

"Yeah?" The word positively sizzled with heat. "What's your point?"

"My point is that it is gonna be the death of you, Sam."

"He's my brother."

"And that?" His lips kicked up at the corner. "That is why sometimes you just gotta let people go."

"No," Sam predictably replied. "No, I can't. I won't. He's my brother. Don't you get that? I'm never going to stop trying to save him."

"And like it or not, this is what life's gonna be like without him."

"Please," Sam begged. "Just—please."

"I swear, it's like talking to a brick wall." He heaved a long, frustrated sigh. "Okay, look, Sam. This all stopped being fun months ago. You're Travis Bickle in a skirt and I'm just so over it."

"Meaning what?" Sam demanded. "Huh? What's that mean?"

"You know what it means, buttercup?" He leaned towards Sam. "It means that it is for me to know and for you to find out." He sent him an easy-going smile. "Peace, Sam."

And the archangel once known as Gabriel warped away to his own private Garden of Eden. Or  _Casa Erotica Cabaña_ as he called it.


	25. Halloween Memories

Dean couldn't help it. He loved Halloween. He always had. It was his most favorite holiday. Halloween had been a blast when he was a kid. Sure, most of that stuff was campy now, and a lot of it was on the lame side, but that was all part of what made Halloween fun. It wasn't just a Sabbath or a night when the spirits could more easily inhabit the world.  _Or move around freely and without worry of detection._

Halloween was the only holiday where he had some good memories of his Mom and Dad.

Mom would always bake fresh apple pies the morning of Halloween while Dad would check that the flashlight had fresh batteries in it. As the pies would cool on a rack, they would dump the candy Dad picked up the night before into a huge bucket Mom would place by the front door for when kids came knocking. Dad would then pack him, and Mom into Baby and they'd drive around to look at all the Halloween decorations before going to pick out his Halloween costume.

People had decorated liberally and freely then, taking part in the fun and festivities. He could remember how there were big, hairy spiders in thick, cottony webs, flying bats with red eyes, and grinning skeletons set around tables playing poker. Some people even went above and beyond, designing make-believe cemeteries and haunted houses that they opened to the public.

Grinning witches stirring cauldrons or riding broomsticks, vampires smiling toothy grins, and other monsters covered window displays and doors all around downtown Lawrence. The  _Monster Mash_  would pump out over store sound systems, mixing with the excited jabbering of kids searching for the perfect costume all for going around town to get free candy.

_And what isn't there to love about getting free candy_? He mused as he sifted through the bags of candy he snagged on his store run for one of the peanut butter and chocolate shaped pumpkins he snagged at the checkout counter. Everyone loved free candy.

_Well, not everyone_ , he thought as he shot a look at his brother. Sam never got a chance to appreciate the holiday like he had. He had only been five-months-old at the time of his one and only Halloween. He couldn't remember that night like Dean did. He hadn't gotten to enjoy the fun of Halloween.

He didn't know how that last Halloween saw Dean dress-up in a pair of mechanic coveralls like Dad while he wore this teddy bear costume Mom had gushed over.  _Man_ , Dean thought as he started emptying out the grocery bag.  _Wish I had a picture of him as that teddy bear_.

It would be well worth whatever retaliation Sammy came up with.

After that yellow-eyed son of a bitch killed Mom, well, there were no more Halloween's for them. No more dressing up in costumes, going out to look at decorations, fresh-baked apple pies or trick-or-treating.

Halloween became just another night of hunting the monsters in the dark.

"Aha!" Dean crowed as his fingers found one of the pumpkin-shaped candies at the bottom of the bag. He pulled the candy out and held it aloft, triumphantly. "Found you!"

"Dean," Sam extolled on one long breath, "what the hell's wrong with you?"

"What?" He glanced at his brother as he unwrapped the candy and stuffed it in his mouth. "It's Halloween, man."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's always Halloween for us."

"Yeah?" He pilfered through the bag for another pumpkin. "What's your point?"

"Nothing." Sam resumed scanning whatever he found on the internet. "Just go back to enjoying your sugar rush while I actually search for something that will help us find whoever is killing people."

"Oh, I plan on enjoying myself, Sammy," he assured him as he unwrapped the pumpkin. "Best part of Halloween is right here."

"Whatever, Dean."

"Hey, I can't help it." A grin tugged at Dean's lips. "I love Halloween."

"Yeah." Sam's lips kicked up at the corners. "I can see that." He shifted the computer around on the table. "Another body was found early this afternoon. Just hit the local papers."

Dean licked chocolate off his lips as he browsed the article.

"Same as all the others?"

"Yup." Sam nodded. "Chest tore open and heart ripped out."

"Call Bobby," Dean said as he grabbed handfuls of candy and shoved it in his pockets. "Tell him to meet us at the morgue."

"Yeah, okay." A frown creased Sam's brow. "Do you think it's a bit of a coincidence that these murders are all happening today?"

"It's Halloween, Sam." Dean looked at him as he popped another candy in his mouth. "Everything weird happens tonight."


	26. Ma Bell

_It was his worst hello, but it turned into his most favorite goodbye_...

…

He wasn't in the mood to be chatty when his phone rang a second after he hung up with Sam. He stifled a few choice words as he flipped the open and barked out a simple, "Yeah, what?" instead of the more acceptable form of  _hello_.

He didn't particularly care  _if_  he came off like a dick. This entire case was turning into something straight oughta the damn Twilight Zone. People talking with the dead via Ma Bell. He snorted a laugh as he waited for the person on the other end of the phone to reply to his caustic greeting. However, there was nothing on the other end, but a faint sound of static. Annoyed even more, he glanced at the phone to check the number, but found he didn't recognize it. His brow knit as he puzzled that out.

"Sam?" He demanded finally. "Sam, is that you?"

It wasn't Sam's voice that broke through the static, though.

"Dean?" The man said in an achingly familiar voice. "Dean, is that you?"

Wave after wave of shock crashed over Dean as he recognized that warm, velvety tone.  _Dad_  was the only logical thought that made it through the icy haze engulfing him. His mouth opened, but no sound came forth. It felt like he was being torn apart by invisible claws. He half imagined getting shredded by the hell mutts Lilith would send for him when his contract was up would hurt a helluva lot less than hearing his dad on the other end of the phone. For several minutes, he could only stand there, staring at the world through eyes that saw nothing.

Not the cars that drove by, the people who walked in and out of the businesses lining the street, not the cat eating a mouse in front of a dumpster parked in an alley behind some hole-in-the-wall burger joint. All he could fix on was the voice on the other end of the phone he held in one trembling hand. Finally, he worked around to one word, the only word his mouth and brain could twist themselves around enough to say.

"Dad?"

...

Yeah, it was his worst hello, but Sam slamming the head of that son of a bitch, Clark, into a metal spike sure turned into his favorite goodbye.


	27. For a Moment

Bela Talbot had done many things in her short life. She admitted, without shame or regret that she was greedy, manipulative, and more than a tad selfish. She did not feel guilty if people got hurt or even killed while she acquired the items she'd been hired to find. If people were not so careless with their things, if they didn't make deals they had no hopes of repaying, if they didn't cross the wrong person... well, she wouldn't have been hired to take their possessions. In her rather admittedly jaded opinion, the world was beyond saving.

In hindsight, she wasn't overly proud of a few of the things she had done. She'd screwed more people than a high-priced call girl. Many of those people had not really deserved to have their possessions taken or their lives ended. Her biggest regret, though was the deal she made ten years ago with a crossroads demon. Granted, she didn't feel any remorse whatsoever for using the deal to murder her parents.

Mummy and Daddy got what they deserved. However, there were other ways she could have used to have accomplished the same outcome. Course, the realization of that came on the eve of her deal's end, but Bela still had hope that she could get around her fate and beat becoming a demon's new plaything in hell.

"Her name's Lilith," she said as calmly as she could. "She is the one who holds your deal. She holds all deals, actually."

"Lilith?" There was a soft speculative hum and then Dean asked, "Why should I believe you? Huh? After everything you've done, why should I believe that this isn't just some other line you're trying to feed me?"

Even knowing it for the truth, it still stung to hear.

"You shouldn't believe me," she admitted with a slight grimace. "But it's the truth, Dean. I swear it."

The roar of a car engine and the squeal of tires muted out any other sound for a few moments. Finally, there was a sigh and Dean resumed speaking.

"This can't help you, Bela, not now. It's too late for you. The hellhounds are coming to make you their new chew toy."

She swallowed the bile that rushed into her mouth at those words.

"I know."

"So, why are you telling me this then?"

"Because maybe," she managed around the hard lump in her throat. "Just maybe, you can kill the bitch."

Dean didn't say anything at first. Bela half wondered if he had hung up on her. It was what she deserved after everything she had done to him and his brother.

"Yeah, well, if we don't kill the bitch," Dean said brusquely, "I'll be seeing you in hell."

Then there was a click and silence. Bela sat there with the receiver of the phone pressed to her ear, her breath coming in short, tattered gasps. She slowly set it back on the cradle as a clock in the distance started to chime.

Midnight.

The witching hour.

The end of her time on this disreputable rock. A lone, mournful howl echoed in the distance.

For a moment, Bela imagined it was merely a wolf calling to its mate.

For a moment, she thought she would be okay. She'd wake up on the morrow and find this was just her wild imagination working overtime.

For a moment, she allowed herself to believe there were no hellhounds lurking outside her door.

For a moment, she was almost right.


	28. Beginning of the End, Part 1

Sam couldn’t believe what Dean just said. _Where is all this coming from_? he found himself wondering as he watched the myriad of emotions playing upon Dean’s face. What caused this? Was it not finding a way to break the deal finally catching up with him? Or something else? Sam didn’t know. He damn sure aimed to find out.

“What are you saying here, Dean?” He managed around the lump in his throat. “That you’re ready to throw in the towel? Because that?” He shook his head. “That’s not gonna happen.” His tone was firm about that. “You understand me? It’s not gonna happen.”

“Not what I'm saying at all.” Dean’s eyes, however, said differently. A shiver of alarm streamed through Sam, but Dean continued talking before he could recover. “I’m saying you're my weak spot, Sammy.”

Sam could only stare at his brother as the impact of those words slammed into him. Shock and disbelief mixed with the hot flood of anger and bitterness that pumped under his skin. However, under all those virulent emotions was a slippery, slimy worm telling him that Dean was right.

“No.” He denied it as much for Dean’s sake as himself. “No, you’re wrong.”

Dean sent him a sad smile from over one shoulder.

“You are,” he said. “And I'm yours.”

Tears, pure sentiment filled Sam’s eyes, clogged his throat.

“You don't mean that,” he choked out. “We're… we're family, man.”

“I know.” Dean nodded. “And those evil sons of bitches out there know it, too. I mean, what we'll do for each other, you know, how far we'll go?” He swung his arms wide. “They're using it against us. Because they know we’ll go as far as it takes to protect one another.”

“So, what?” Sam asked slowly. “We just stop looking out for each other? Stop trying? What are we supposed to do here, Dean?”

“We stop being martyrs, Sam. We – we – we stop spreading it for these demons.” He picks up Ruby's knife and brandishes it. “We take this, and we go after Lilith, but we do it our way. The way Dad taught us to do things. And if we go down...” he paused. “Well, at least we know we went down swinging.”

Sam could only stand there, struggling to think of some small bit of logic that would refute what Dean said, but came up with nothing. What was there to say? That he was right? He was. That they needed to do this the only way they knew how: balls to the wall? He knew they did. Everything they fought for, their dad died for, and they managed to accomplish because of those collected sacrifices demanded they give their all.

However, as right as Dean was, he was also wrong about one thing: he wasn’t going to give up on him.

Not without a helluva fight.

 


	29. Beginning of the End, part 2

“This is about me and Sam.” He peered at Dean through slightly narrowed eyes, not sure he was hearing him right through the slight buzzing filling his ears. Dean confirmed his suspicion when he added, “This isn't your fight.”

Bobby Singer could only stand there in the middle of his salvage yard and listen to Dean tell him how this fight wasn’t his and that he didn’t need to get involved. Fury reached up to choke him and kept him from saying or doing anything for several minutes.

 _You stupid son of a_... he thought as his fingers twitched at his sides. How the hell could Dean say that to him? After everything, they had gone through after their daddy’s death? All the fights they had gotten into? The jobs they worked? The whiskey they guzzled down? Before he could think better of it, he stormed up to Dean and got right in his face.

“The hell it isn't!”

Surprise raced across Dean’s face. Bobby knew he was not used to having anyone outside of his daddy and Sam get into his face and call him out on his crap. However, Bobby had reached the end of his patience with the oldest Winchester and decided it was time to tell him a thing or two before they went off to meet their makers.

“Family don't end with blood, boy.”

They didn’t begin with blood, either. Not that he added that part. He didn’t feel like he needed to tell Sam and Dean that. No more than he felt a need to explain why he ended up raisin’ them for a time. They didn’t need any reminders about how their daddy had been too busy searching for the son of a bitch who murdered their mother to focus on raisin’ them. And they may act like a pair of prancing princesses at times, but they were still great in his — admittedly jaded — opinion. They were more than great, actually. They were his.

And they weren’t going off to fight for Dean’s twisted soul without him.

“Bobby…” Dean began but Bobby cut off whatever line he was about to feed him before he could even get it off the grill.

“You two jackasses need me.”

“Bobby...”

“You're playing wounded, Dean.”

“So?” Outwardly, Dean’s face showed nothing. However, you couldn’t con a con artist. Bobby knew he had rattled the boy by revealing he wasn’t all there. “What’s that—“

“Tell me.” Bobby knew he was badgering the hell outta Dean. And steppin’ all over his insecurities. However, it was the only way to get things through Dean’s thick skull. It was the only way to get things through John’s thick skull, too. _Just like your damn daddy, there_.

“How many hallucinations have you had so far?”

Dean visibly swallowed as Sam turned to look at him, confusion and a good deal of fear stamped upon his face. He then looked over at Dean who avoided his gaze.

“How'd you know?”

The words were barely a mumble.

“Because that's what happens when you've got hellhounds on your butt.” When Dean frowned at him, he added, his tone like flint, “And because I'm smart.”

Dean stared down at the ground, clearly unsettled at having his secret outed. Bobby couldn’t help that. It needed sayin’ and he figured he was the only one capable of sayin’ it. He handed him the distributor cap he had swiped while he and Sam had bickered in the basement.

“I'll follow,” he said before he turned to walk to his car. “And don't be stopping to pee every ten minutes, either.”

 


	30. Beginning of the End, Final

Reality, such as it was, took its sweet time in returning. All Dean was aware of when his mind finished circling the drain was nothingness doing some twisted version of the hokey pokey along every firing synapse. Muted sounds broke the velvet curtain. Occasionally, there was a splattering of light to shine through the back of his eyelids to sear his brain. Dean attempted to grasp hold of the beams, tried to use them to haul his ass back to full awareness, but the fragments managed to elude his grasp at every turn.

He managed to grasp hold of a fringe of consciousness, more by chance than any sort of skill and used it to pull himself up. Up towards reality and whatever crap was gonna be waitin' for him once he opened his eyes. Dimly, he heard the low growl of thunder, followed by the metallic clatter of chains as they were drug across the ground.

Then the winged bastards grabbed him with their razor-sharp claws and yanked him back into the void. After that, he saw nothing 'cept for the back of his eyelids. Every now and again, he could feel hands tipped with razor-sharp claws pokin' and pullin' at him, scratchin' at his already thin skin until he thought he would split apart at the seams. He tried to smack the sons of bitches away but found he couldn't move his hands or arms more than a few inches. Peals of laughter echoed across the dark expanse, chilling him to the marrow, and reminding him of the last moments of his worthless life:

Dean knew he was trapped in this deep, dark well. He was gonna stay that way because there was no escaping the pit. Not this time. His worthless hide was here to rot. He felt insubstantial, almost as if he was no longer alivin', thinkin', essential to the world human being. Part of him wondered if this void was what Ruby had tried to warn him about.  _If it is, well, I got news for her_ , he thought as he tried to force himself back to a state of consciousness.  _It sucks balls_.

Dean felt his conscious mind start to stir and reached out to grab hold of the pinpricks of light forming red balls behind his eyelids. He managed to lever open his eyes. Everything around him was some bizarre shade of green. Not emerald, not pea soup, not even army fatigue green. It was just some sorta weird shade of green that made his gut twist, heart clench, and head throb as if he had one helluva hangover. Thick clouds, blacker then the night skies over Kansas swirled all around him, slapping at him with hands formed from the thick vapor, and tearing at his already fractured flesh with invisible claws.

Dean turned his head and saw there were chains stretched for as far as his blurry eyes could see. Thunder boomed, and lightning crashed. A fire bolt sizzled along every synapse and caused him to cry out despite his every effort not to give the sons of bitches the pleasure of him doing so. A bright bolt of pain shot through his body, causing every nerve to shudder in agony, and every muscle to weep for mercy.

Try as he did to prevent it, a scream bubbled up and burst from his mouth, causing the things hanging at the edge of his visual field to laugh with glee. He tried to move, to roll away from the nails shredding his flesh, but finds his arms and legs are held fast by the chains he'd been bound by. He felt the bite of something going through his right shoulder and anchored his head back to see a hook protruding from his flesh. Terror rose up to choke him as the full weight of what he was going to endure sunk home.

He was trapped, body and soul.

There were no means of escape at his disposal.

He had absolutely no hope of any type of mercy or salvation.

All those ways he would have once used to deal with what they planned for him were unavailable to him here. His weapons, Baby, Bobby, Sam they were all way outta his reach. They would be until after this place wore him down and turned him into one of the black-eyed jackals Sam and Bobby would have to hunt.

Dean was alone, stretched out like a Christmas feast, and at the macabre whims of whoever came to take a bite outta him.

Fear burned through the pain and he felt an almost ridiculous urge to cry. He stifled that crap quick. Sobbin' like a baby was the last thing he would ever do. He was made of sterner stock than that. Dad had made him a soldier, after all. And soldiers didn't cry. They looked for ways out of their situation.

"Help!" He shouted into the void. "Somebody help me!"  
A cloud swirled up and punched him, rocking his head back and causing him to see stars. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth and rained down his chin. Still, he called out to the only person he thought could manage to find a way to rescue him from his fate.

"Sam! Help me!" Desperation dripped from every syllable and sickened him. "Sam!"

Dean's world exploded in a kaleidoscope of pain.

Everything went brighter than the midday sun.

Then dark as the bowels of hell.


	31. Lost Brother

Neither of them expected that the nerdy little angel in the tan trench coat would become such a big part of their lives. No more than they anticipated how much they would miss him once he was gone. This wasn't the way things were supposed to go. Losing Cas hadn't been one of the outcomes they foresaw. It never even occurred to them that Cas wouldn't come home with them.

_And it should have occurred to us_ , Sam thought as he watched Dean filch around in the brown grocery bag. _We should have anticipated that losing Cas was possible_.

The only reason for why they hadn't thought it a possibility was because Cas was brought back twice before by some unknown helper. Whatever the reason, when they set out to confront Cas, it was with the sole intention of talking him into returning the souls he had absorbed from Purgatory and coming home with them. They hadn't known, not at that time, about what sort of monsters Cas sucked in. Vampires, werewolves, demons, and ghouls were nothing in comparison to the monsters Cas called _Leviathan_ in that brief moment he had of clarity.

"Dean..."

"Cas is gone, man. He ain't coming back. Not this time."

"You don't know that, Dean." Sam shook his head. "You don't know that Cas is gone for good. He could just be... lost."

"I've been down this road before, Sam." Dean popped the top off a beer and tossed it into the trash can by the table. "And I fought my way back then the same way I am gonna do now."

"Yeah?" Sam challenged. "And how are you gonna do that? Huh?"

"The same way I always do: with a ton of bullets, some Busty Babes, and a whole lotta booze." He lifted the green colored bottle and drained half of its contents in one long swallow. When he finished, he lowered the bottle and rasped, "A whole lotta booze, in fact."

"So, you're gonna do what you always do: bottle your emotions up rather than deal with them."

Of course, it was what Dean would do. His grief always turned into fury, a raging flood of bitter anger he would smother with copious amounts of alcohol, cheap women, and an insane level of violence.

"Hey." There was velvet steel underscoring that single word. "You do you, and I'll do me."

It was a veiled warning about backing off while Dean still had a small ribbon of patience left. Sam did so, but not happily.

"Whatever, man."

He opened his laptop and started searching for something, anything that would help distract Dean from the death of Cas. He acknowledged, albeit silently that doing so made him an enabler.

It wasn't like he had any other choice.

Dean was not in the mood for a lecture about how he chose to deal with his grief.

And he was too heartsick about losing another brother to fight with the only one he had left.

 


	32. Idjits

There were some days when he thought there was no point to having an afterlife. Not when the angels had their dander up 'bout something or other going on down on Earth. Today, however, was a day where he wished he could reach down from Heaven and slap them two idjits.

"Hell's the matter with you two?" Bobby Singer groused as he slammed shut the book he had been attempting to read. "I die and you two idjits just go and royally screw the pooch."

He shouldn't be all that surprised to hear that the boys had gone and unleashed some sort of darkness on the world. He'd have been more shocked if he found out that they  _weren't_  the ones behind things. He recalled asking Sam and Dean once about why it was that when something bad was going down that it was always them who were the usual suspects.

Dean had spouted off with one of his usual smart ass, "been askin' myself that same question for years," replies before flashing him a grin that told him the boy really didn't care about the answer.

Bobby, though, suspected it resided in the boys' DNA. He had never met two more stubborn, reckless, foolish boys as Sam and Dean Winchester. They'd do anything — even make deals with the damn Devil himself — to pull the other out of the line of fire. Hadn't Dean proven that when he traded his soul to a crossroads demon in return for Sam being brought back to life? And then again when he allowed some angel to possess his brother's body so that the damage that Sam had suffered while trying to shut the Gates of Hell could be repaired?

And hadn't Sam proven how far down the rabbit hole he was willing to go to get Dean back when he killed an innocent man? And when he aligned himself with a witch named Rowena — who was also the mother of the self-named King of Hell — to get the Mark of Cain off his brother before it turned Dean into a mass-murdering monster?

Both boys had died more times than he cared to count, much less to even remember. Even the angels were beginning to take bets upon which brother was going to end up dying next. The common jest amidst those angels he saw on a regular basis was about how long Sam or Dean would remain in Hell this time around. However, Bobby knew that a great many of their deaths had also come while the boys had been serving the greater good in some form or fashion.

Dean, alone, had died over a hundred times at the hands of the masquerading trickster, Gabriel. The boys were the first two to step up and offer up their own souls if it meant saving the world or someone they cared for. Hadn't Dean proven that when he chose to cast himself into Purgatory in order to rid the world of the Leviathans? And hadn't Sam done that when he flung himself and Michael down into Lucifer's cage to avert the Apocalypse?

That's why he wasn't  _too_  concerned about the newest calamity that the boys had managed to cause. Killing Death — and that was something that Bobby had not even thought was  _remotely_ possible — and unleashing a terrible darkness upon the world? Well, that was just a normal day in the lives of Sam and Dean Winchester. They'd figure out how to salvage things. They usually did. Besides that, there weren't anybody else he could think of who could dig the world out of chaos better than them two. He had already seen them two do the impossible when they stopped the freakin' apocalypse. They'd save the world from whatever was gonna rise up and try and destroy it this time, too.

They'd just take their sweet-ass time about doing it.

"Idjits."

He vaguely noted how there was exasperation, as well as a hint of sorrow in that single, solitary word. Well, those boys tended to drive him to drink. However, he could also hear every ounce of the fatherly pride and affection he felt for them two prancing princesses.  _And how'd it happen that a mean ole cuss like me ended up raising them, two nincompoops_? he mused as he poured himself a stiff belt of the amber liquid set on the table next to his armchair. Well, it was 'cause fate and John Winchester had given him those two boys to raise. And they may have grown up a little bit screwed in the head, but they still grew up great in his, admittedly jaded, opinion.

They grew up to be heroes, in fact.

They'd save the world. That was what Sam and Dean Winchester did.  _My boys ain't no cowards_ , he thought as he opened the book in his lap and stared down at the faces that were smiling up at him.

"For a pair of whiny little brats," he said in a thick voice. "You turned out okay. Now c'mon, get your heads outta your asses, and fix this mess you've made."


	33. Celebrations

"We should celebrate this year."

"Celebrate what?" Sam asked as he stirred cream into the mud that Dean jokingly said was coffee. He looked up from the newspaper he'd been glancing through, his expression puzzled. "What are you talking about, Dean?"

"Christmas, Sammy." Dean forked up another mouthful of pancake. "We should celebrate Christmas."

"No." Sam's tone said he was quite adamant in his refusal to take part in the celebration Dean was suggesting they have. "Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because I want nothing to do with any sort of Christmas celebration."

"Think about it," Dean cajoled. "We can get a little tree, hang up some lights, exchange some presents, feast on Boston Market." He sat back and flashed his brother a lopsided grin. "It'll be just like when we were kids."

Sam simply stared at Dean while a plethora of memories from Christmases past played on a loop through his brain.

"Yanno, those, uh, those aren't exactly Hallmark memories for me," he finally said quietly. "Or for you, either."

"C'mon, man," Dean exploded impatiently. "We had a couple of great Christmases with dad."

Sam found himself slightly taken aback by how skewed Dean's memories seemingly were. Great Christmases and their dad? Who was Dean trying to kid here? Himself?

"Whose  _dad_  are you talking about here, Dean? Because the dad I remember was usually passed out in front of the television, best all to hell or off on some job."

"He tried, Sam." The happy little grin that had been on Dean's face moments before slowly melted into that emotionless mask his brother had gotten so good at wearing. "He did the best he could."

"I know he did, Dean." Sam set his spoon aside with a sigh. "I know dad did his best. But that doesn't mean I want to take part in any sort of Christmas celebration." He folded his hands around his mug while studying his brother's face. "Why is celebrating Christmas so important to you this year?"

"What do you mean?"

"I dunno." Sam shook his head. "It just seems…" He shrugged. "Well, sudden."

"Yeah, and?"

"And you have never cared much about celebrating Christmas before. So, I'm just wondering… why?"

Dean was quiet for several minutes. Sam could see he was struggling with trying to answer his question. However, instead of giving him any sort of answer, Dean merely pushed his half-eaten plate away and got to his feet.

"Yanno, just forget I said anything 'bout it," he rasped as he crossed to the doorway. "'Kay?"

"Dean…" Sam heaved a sigh. "What's going on with you, man?"

"What?" Dean glanced over his shoulder. "What do you mean what's going on with me?"

"Since when are you into Christmas?"

"I've always liked Christmas."

"No, Dean, you hate Christmas as much as I do," Sam spoke softly and even more effectively for it in his opinion. Treading lightly was the best way to get at whatever it was that was bothering his brother. "So, why do you want to celebrate it so bad this year?"

"Why are you so against it? I mean, are your childhood memories really  _that_  traumatic, Sam?"

Sam again shook his head.

"That has nothing to do with it, Dean."

"Then what is it? Because I don't get why you are so against celebrating Christmas."

"And I don't get why you are so dead set on celebrating it," Sam shot back. "You haven't even talked about Christmas in years, Dean. Not since..." His voice trailed off. "Not since right before you died and went to Hell."

"Yeah, I know." Dean half-turned towards him. "But we've had us a bit of a miracle here this year, Sammy. We defeated Amara and the Men of Letters. Sent Lucifer to funky town. Somehow managed to get Cas back. It's Jack's first Christmas. I just thought…" He paused. "I dunno, I just thought it would be nice to celebrate Christmas for a change. Like a family."

Sam just sat there looking at Dean. Finally, he gave a small sigh. "Alright, Dean," he said softly. "If it really means that much to you? We can celebrate Christmas."


	34. Christmas Prank

He wrapped the present with the utmost of care. He had a feeling that Dean wouldn't quite appreciate the shimmery green wrapping paper or the huge silver bow with candy canes on it, but he could only work with what was available. It wasn't like his brother had given him a huge amount of notice about wanting to celebrate Christmas. And shopping on Christmas Eve, Sam found out, was a bigger fiasco than hunting Wendigoes or Jinns.

Dean wanted to celebrate Christmas, however.

Sam still didn't understand why, and he much doubted he ever would, but this year, Christmas was important to Dean. And dammit, he wanted to give this to his brother.  _They had earned it_ , he realized as he stuck the corner of the card he bought beneath the bow. They had gone through so much in the last few years that they deserved to have some sort of celebration. Their family, little as it was, had been restored. It was good times for a change.

 _We got a chance to make things right_ , he thought as he carted the package over and stuck it by the plastic tree he bought at the dollar store.  _We have a chance to do things like other normal families. A chance to celebrate as other people will be_.

Not that they had ever been a normal family.

However, Dean was right about how not all their Christmases had been humdrum affairs. Not all of them included dad passed out in front of the tv, off on some hunt or them grabbing Boston Market and calling it a celebration. They had shared some good times with their dad.  _Like when he packed us up and took us to Bobby's that year I turned eight_. They had laughed with him.  _Like when the Impala got stuck in the mud and we had to wait three hours for a tow truck_. Had moments where they bonded.  _Like when he took us on that one trip and taught us how to hunt deer_.

They were the times he had wished to have more of after their dad traded his life to save Dean. Times he had made himself forget because it was easier to remember the bad, and less painful than the reality that they wouldn't ever have those times with dad again.

 _Well, I'm not gonna waste that time this year_ , he decided as he stepped back from the tree.  _Dean wants to have Christmas? We'll have Christmas_.

Then, Sam laughed.

Because what Christmas wasn't complete without Dean's three favorite things: booze, pie, and Busty Asian Beauties?


	35. Ain't Me

Dean opened his eyes and immediately sensed it was Castiel and not his brother sitting in the chair beside his bed. A quick glance around his hospital room told him they were alone. The clock on the wall showed him the hour was late. Of itself, that didn't bother him. His life was a series of late hours. What did bother him was how...  _silent_  the room was. The only sound he could hear was coming from a monitor softly beeping in the next room.

Even the hallway was suspiciously quiet. It was almost as if the hospital was in some sort of angel-genic slumber.  _The hell's going on_? He wondered as he waited for the lingering fog created by the drugs the doctors had pumped into his system to dissipate.  _Am I about to meet another of the dickless wonders?_

If he didn't feel as if he'd been kicked through a wall by Superman and smashed into the ground by the Hulk, he'd have kicked off the covers and demanded that Cas get him the hell out of here. Even a stubborn son of a bitch like him knew that when blinking hurt that your ass needed to stay in bed. He swallowed a groan as he tried to make himself more comfortable. Cas must have sensed that he was awake because he shifted slightly in his chair before asking, "Are you all right?"

It wasn't fair to place the blame for what had happened all upon him, but since that dick, Uriel was nowhere around, it was at Cas that he aimed all the hurt and anger and sorrow burning a hole in his gut.

"No thanks to you."

Cas took his crap in his usual unruffled stride.

"You need to be more careful, Dean."

That just made the huge pile of stink already sloshing around inside his head churn faster.

"And you need to learn how to manage a damn devil's trap," he ground out from between clenched teeth. "I wouldn't be here if Alastair hadn't slipped his chains."

"That's not what I mean," Castiel paused; considered whatever it was he was about to say. Finally, he said, "Uriel is dead."

Despite his intense dislike for ole cranky angel pants, Dean still felt his gut twist at hearing that he was dead. Things were tense enough without Uriel's death now being added to the mix. His death would make eight angels who'd been murdered. The question still on the table was about who was doing the killing. Alastair had gotten himself free before he'd been able to get the answer from him.

"Was it demons?"

A sadness seemed to creep over Cas's face at that question. He didn't ask how Uriel died. He figured that if Cas wanted him privy to that information, he'd tell him. What he could see from looking into Cas's eyes was that the angel was weighing out how exactly to respond to his question. Dean knew that it wasn't because he was trying to work up some lie to tell him. Cas lacked even the basic ability for guile, for one thing, and didn't have a clue about how to lie convincingly for another.

"It was disobedience." He looked over at Dean. "He was working against Heaven."

Dean assumed that what Cas meant by Uriel working against them was that he was helping Lilith break seals instead of stopping them from being broken. Not for the first time, and Dean assumed it wouldn't be the last time, he found himself surprised at the machinations of beings who wore self-righteous and sanctimonious about as well as he wore his one good suit. Alistair's last statement about him breaking the very first seal played through his mind on a never-ending loop. His belly cramped as it became more and more possible that Alastair had been right. Still, a part of him hoped; prayed that Alastair had just been lying.

"Is it true?" He saw Cas fix him with a mildly perplexed look. It took him a minute to realize that the angel wasn't privy to what Alistair had said to him in that chamber. "Did I break the first seal?" He saw the slight tensing around those soulful eyes and figured he had his answer, but still couldn't stop himself from asking, "Did I start all this?"

Castiel's shoulders slumped and he averted his gaze, almost as if he was ashamed to admit that Alastair was right. Dean imagined that if he could see the wings affixed to his back that they'd be held in a way that signified just how heavy the burdens were upon Cas at that moment.

"Yes," he finally said with one long breath. He glanced at Dean, his eyes and face somber in the shadows. "When we discovered Lilith's plan for you, we laid siege to hell and we fought our way to get to you before you—"

"Jump-started the freakin' apocalypse."

Guilt swirled amidst a vast sea of self-recrimination and blame. Alastair had been right, he was the one who'd started this mess when he picked up that razor and tortured his first victim. He was the reason for why the world was facing the end of days. It was all his fault. If he hadn't broken upon the rack, if he'd held out, if he hadn't given in, none of this would have happened. He was the screw-up that everyone always said he was.

And now the world was going to suffer for his cowardice.

"We were too late, Dean. We didn't reach you in time."

"Why didn't you just leave me there, then?"

"It's not blame that falls on you." Cas's voice was as gentle as a midsummer rain. "It's fate."

"Hell's that supposed to mean?"

"The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can finish it. You," Cas told him in a dead serious voice, "have to stop this, Dean."

What was he stopping? That was what Dean didn't have any damn clue about. For months he'd been hearing that he'd been lifted from perdition because there was a task that only he could do, it was up to him, that he was their secret weapon. Well, he decided it was about time he find out what exactly it was they wanted him to stop.

"What am I stopping? Huh? Lucifer? The freakin' apocalypse?" He fixed Cas with a hard-green stare. "What does it mean?" He saw a plethora of things flicker across the angel's face as he slowly shook his head.

"Hey!" he snapped when Cas made to leave. "Don't you go disappearing on me, you son of a bitch," he warned with a low growl. "Not before you tell me what it means!"

Cas's reply was nothing but a softly uttered, "I don't know."

"Bull! You know exactly what it means!"

Castiel shot him a disapproving look. Dean merely ignored him. He wasn't about to apologize for what he said. Or for how he felt. Enough was enough. He deserved to have some answers.

"I don't." There was a thin current of frustration coating Cas's voice. "Dean, they don't tell me much." His eyes pleaded with him to understand. "All I know is all our fate rests on you and your brother."

And that was all that he knew, Dean realized then. Cas was being given the runaround same as he was. Only, he wasn't so dumb that he didn't know that he was getting screwed by the pooch.

"Well," he rasped, "then you guys are all screwed." He turned watery eyes upon him. "I can't do it, man," he choked out. "It's too big a task."

Those eyes that were even more capable than Sammy's of ripping him to pieces flicked to his. Dean swore he saw a moment's pity intermingling with sorrow and regret. It wasn't any of those things that he wanted, and he gave the angel a look that told him as much. Cas just looked away, his face returning to its usual unreadable state.

"Alastair was right," he told him when the silence drug on long enough to make him itchy. "I'm not all here. I'm not…" He swallowed around the lump that had suddenly gotten lodged in his throat. "I'm not strong enough." Cas continued to say nothing. "Well, I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be." He paused to take a breath. "Find someone else to stop this."

"Dean…"

"I said find someone else," he barked. "It ain't me."

But of course, it was him.

It was always him.

It would always  _be_  him.

No matter what.


	36. Witchy Woman

Dean spotted the sign with the name  _Du Cercle Trois_ as soon as he turned the corner onto Bourbon _._ Not like it was all that hard to miss, really. The neon pink sign danced cheerfully over the wood door of a building less than three steps off the street. He paused a moment to study the place. The second-floor gallery boasted wrought ironwork entirely too feminine in taste. Someone had set out pots of all sorts of herbs and multicolored flowers, as well as wrapped strands of multicolored lights around the balustrade that led up to the second-floor dining level.

It was not his usual sorta hole in the wall dive where the food dripped grease down his arm, and the liquor was both overpriced and watered down. However, something compelled him to reach out and open the heavy door. To go inside and sit a spell. To let the things on his mind, settle. The low whine of the blues and the heady scent of spicy food mixed with the sounds of free-flowing alcohol assaulted him before he even stepped inside the joint.

Dean thought he found his own slice of Heaven.

On the small stage at the back of the room were two players, a female with blue hair on electric guitar and a gray-haired man on harmonica. It wasn't his typical style of music, but he couldn't deny the duo weren't good at hitting all the right notes with their playing. None of the round, wood tables were free. No matter. He preferred sitting at the bar anyway. He weaved his way through the crowd to the bar. The wood was nearly black with age, but it gleamed like marble beneath the recessed lighting. A dozen swivel legged wood stools were jammed together in front of it. He snagged one as he looked around.

Dozens of bottles lined the mirror behind the bar. Interspersed with them were small pots with herbs, flowers, and other greenery. Different colored stones, Mardi Gras beads, and sticks of incense were kept in a basket by the cash register. A broom by the door he entered from. It was obviously not used for sweeping after-hours. Dean contemplated the items, considered the sort of person who would need and use such things, and decided it was someone who not only understood the city of New Orleans but was well-versed in the practice of magic as well.  _Great_ , he thought as he looked around the room once more.  _That's just freakin' awesome._

His small slice of Nirvana  _would_  come with a witch.

Onstage, the harmonica player began to blow a low, mournful tune that brought an ache to his heart and a plethora of crap to mind. He shoved the memories back and glanced at the end of the bar. The man tending had dreads that reached almost to his waist and which were as white as his face was black. His hands moved with a hypnotic grace as he worked taps and poured shots.

Dean started to lift his hand to get his attention but then  _she_  walked out of the door behind the bar. Later, when he had a chance to think clearly, he would decide it was like having a thousand bolts of electricity shot into his ass. Not stopping his heart but jump-starting it. He could hear and feel the race of his body like a loud hum that drowned out the music, the voices, everything but the wild gallop of his heart against his ribcage. His gaze focused in on her so completely that it was as if she was the only other person in the bar, in the world even, at that moment.

_It's her_ , he realized soon as his brain was able to form logical thought. It was the woman with the sweet ass Mustang. His black-haired, gray-eyed angel. He finally found her. After months of searching, here she was. Live and in the flesh. She was small of frame, small of feature, and even more intriguing because of it. She wore a long black dress that left her arms bare to the trio of bracelets she wore on each wrist and which showed off the firm curve of her breasts. Tucked into the valley of those breasts was a silver chain that had a large silver pentacle with a blood-red moonstone in the middle.

At her ears, silver earrings in the shapes of moons and stars winked when they caught the light. Her eyes flicked to his and those full lips curved — a slow, knowing smile as she strolled over, close enough for him to catch the exotic mix of jasmine and vanilla, and start to slowly drown in it.

"Can I get you something,  _cara_?"

"Um…" was all that came out. "Ah."

She gave her head a little toss, setting those stars and moons to tinkling merrily. She spoke again, her voice a silky curl of sound that wound its way into his belly and spread warmth throughout every inch of his body.

"You thirsty? Or just…. " A pause was followed by a rolling, "hungry?" that sent blood rushing from one head straight to another.

Dean had to swallow to keep from drooling. It didn't stop him however from saying the first thing that came to mind.

"You wanna run away and get married?"

She laughed. It was the low, throaty sound of his fantasies for the last few months. The tension rolling around inside him eased. Dean decided at that moment that it didn't matter if she was a witch. She had occupied his dreams for far too long for him to blow this opportunity.  _If Sammy shows up before I get a chance to learn her name I swear I will beat the crap outta him_...

"Mm, think I should know the name of the man I'm marrying before I agree to marry him."

"It's Dean. Dean Winchester."

"Well, Dean Winchester," she replied in a voice like honey. "I'm Aydan. Aydan Black."

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all, and welcome! 
> 
> This is a collection of ficlets written in various word lengths that explore various moments from season 1 until present (whenever I get to the present). 
> 
> Please, if you like this piece, bookmark/kudo it!


End file.
